


Forever

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sappy, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Spock spend their first day off in a while together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Happy Love Day, lovelies. I love you all.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s warm and touching, pulls him out of his dream landscape into a spiral of immediate love. It isn’t often that Spock wakes Jim up by snuggling into him, so Jim grins wide and luxuriates in it, feigning more sleep. Spock’s legs push closer, one slipping between his, intertwined. Spock’s hands slip over his sides, fingers splayed over his skin, touching as much as possible. Neither of them is wearing any clothes. Spock’s face nuzzles into his, their cheeks brushing and bursting static sparks. When Jim can’t resist any longer, he turns his head to meet Spock halfway. 

He opens his eyes partway through the kiss, letting them fall shut a moment later. The lights are coming on slowly, preprogrammed to be gradual and comfortable. Spock’s kissing him somehow both sweetly and fiercely, closed lips but pressing tight. Jim’s tongue traces along their seam to open them, and then they’re harder. 

They kiss and they kiss; Spock’s mouth tastes like mint toothpaste; he’s already been up. Jim’s sure he taste of morning breath, but Spock doesn’t seem to care. One hand slips out of the blankets to cup Jim’s face, thumb brushing over his cheek and fingers caressing the light stubble on his chin. His own arms finally respond, and he uses them to draw Spock tighter against him, that strong, familiar heat that he knows every part of. Spock’s body is an extension of his own at this point, just the prettier, better half. They’re still making out like teenagers when yesterday’s excitement filters into Jim’s head: their first shift off together in nearly a month. Finally. He doesn’t think he could wait any longer. 

A few more lingering kisses, and Jim’s flipping them over, rolling onto Spock to rock into him and moan, thinking about making love to him right here. Or maybe it would be better for today’s plans if Spock made love to him. Or maybe he should put some actual effort into being romantic for once other than the horny nymphomaniac Spock turns him into. 

As soon as Jim parts their lips, Spock begins the conversation. He murmurs, “I love you, _t’hy’la_ ,” and presses his forehead up against Jim’s, body embracing Jim’s weight. Jim _fits_ in Spock’s arms, on Spock’s body, and he pulls back to smile at Spock curiously. It isn’t often Spock says that first, unprompted. It’s hardly... logical. 

He returns easily, “I love you too, darling,” and he feels sappy and romantic and lethargically good. He means to grind every centimeter of his skin down into Spock’s, but instead, he just sort of collapses in Spock’s arms. He doesn’t want to get up, even though there’re plans—but couldn’t they just stay in bed, like this, all day? He pecks Spock’s cheek and asks, “Have you already showered?”

“Mhm,” Spock hums, while his long fingers trace slow patterns along Jim’s back. He’s acting something like a tribble, but Jim’s hardly complaining. He nuzzles into the side of Spock’s face again and enjoys Spock nuzzling back. 

He whispers, “You should’ve waited for me.” The thought of Spock dripping wet is always a pleasant one, and his body stirs accordingly. His cock’s been at half-mast since he woke up, and with the thought of running an old-fashioned soap bar all over ever patch and contour of Spock’s body, it feels even harder. He rolls himself into Spock and purrs happily, still thinking of filling Spock up or being filled. It doesn’t matter. He just wants more _Spock_ , and for once, he seems to be getting it, no-questions-asked. 

Spock’s fingers work up to massaging the back of Jim’s neck, then his skull, sweeping through his hair and making Jim dizzily content. “It would have inevitably taken us over schedule,” Spock assures him. Jim just laughs—they’re finally off; there is no schedule. Trust Spock to not let a little thing like a free day stop him. “Furthermore, today is about more than sex.” And Jim thinks he might be being scolded; if anyone takes them over that line, it’s always him. 

But that’s only because Spock’s so irresistible. He breathes out into the hollow of Spock’s neck, getting the message. Later, then. It’s sort of sweet to know that Spock takes these free moments of theirs so seriously, even if in some ways, it’s frustrating. But he supposes Spock’s right, in his own context. He has his own plans. He finally pushes up on his elbows and kisses Spock chastely once, mumbling after, “I suppose that’s my cue to go clean up.” Spock nods. 

Jim kisses him on the nose and sits, the blankets slipping away and leaving the crisp, cool, newly-lit air. He takes a moment just to enjoy the view, look down and take in Spock’s body, naked and pure. His palms fall from Spock’s shoulders down over Spock’s chest, pausing once to lightly play with his nipples. Spock lifts one eyebrow as Jim fondly tugs on them both at once, trying to get them pronounced enough to suck. Chided with the look alone, Jim moves down the rest of Spock’s trim form, pausing on the bottom of Spock’s stomach. 

He’s sitting on Spock’s dick. He wants to touch that part too, wants to curl his fist around it and pump it, lock his lips around it and lavish it with broad licks and kisses, but Spock’s clearly in a different sort of mood. So Jim, who needs to keep Spock in good spirits today more than ever, simply sits back and appreciates. Spock’s _beautiful,_ and Jim’s pretty sure he’s the luckiest man in the known universe.

Even if Spock is a little uptight and stilted and arguably too rational. He’s best around Jim, like Jim’s best around him. Spock strokes his sides and tells him quietly, “Go shower.”

Another kiss, because Jim can’t help it, and he climbs off, headed to the bathroom and still wishing Spock was following.

* * *

The time alone in the shower is spent mostly accruing butterflies for what he plans to do. Later. He doesn’t know quite how Vulcans go about this sort of thing, and naturally, the computer didn’t help. He only knows what humans do and how very illogical it all is, and that gives him no ground rules, no rituals, no festivities, just the two of them. Which is how they always are, he supposes. When he couldn’t get any cleaner, he changes into civilian clothes—jeans and a v-neck that’s hopefully vaguely reminiscent of Vulcan. When he steps into the living room, Spock’s eyes sweep over him and sparkle with approval. Jim floats over in a cloud. 

“I prepared breakfast,” Spock announces, and he tips the final pancake out of his pan and onto the stack already on a plate. Though the base ingredients were probably synthesized, Jim hasn’t had properly prepared food in a long, long time. He finds it more and more curious and can only smile, taking a seat around the small table. Spock slips the dishes into the cleaning chute and takes a seat across from him, gesturing to various bowls to explain, “These are buttermilk pancakes, what I am told is an Earth delicacy. This is a mix of crushed berries, this is maple syrup, this is honey, and this is melted butter. Enjoy.” The way he looks—so utterly stoic and upheld—as he says the word ‘enjoy’ brings a familiar glow to Jim’s chest. Spock never quite understands these elaborate, needless things, but he tries for Jim, and it’s both hilarious and cute as hell. 

Jim uses a fork to drag a pancake onto the plate in front of him, and he says, “Spock, you shouldn’t have.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Spock asks, “Why not?” Then he looks about the table, clearly searching for his error. Jim just laughs—they should both know better by now. 

He soothes, “Never mind,” and starts pouring things on. He takes a bit of everything. Spock simply sits back and watches in his grey sweater, more flattering on him than any other man could pull off, and Jim swallows happily. He has to lick his lips after to deal with the sugary aftermath, but that’s no chore. He tells Spock truthfully, “It’s delicious.”

Only then does Spock nod and set in on his own share, though he only takes berries on his pancakes. Jim should’ve thought of this. He should’ve made Spock some special Vulcan breakfast. Instead, he’s halfway through his second pancake when he feels something nudge against his foot. Spock’s is settled against his. He can feel it through both their socks. He never pegged Spock as the hopelessly romantic type, but today is shaping up very well. 

It’ll probably bode well for his own plans, and that helps quell his nerves somewhat. For now, Spock seems very determined in his own endeavors, so Jim, bribed with sugar and love, just happily follows along.

* * *

It gets even worse. Or better, in a way. By now, Jim almost doesn’t want to ask—it might spoil the fun. But curiosity is starting to eat him. They sit on the couch in the living space of the captain’s quarters, and Spock holds him down and tells him, “Stay.” Spock pecks him on the mouth and stands, heading over to the screen he projects wider across the wall. He stands beside the console and skims the database, asking over his shoulder, “I propose we watch an old Earth romantic film as opposed to our usual chess game.” Though his face says it’s more than just a proposal. 

Jim’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. “You want to watch a romance movie?”

‘Want’ is a difficult thing for Spock to admit, and he rephrases, “I believe it is prudent that we do so.”

“Prudent?”

“Yes, Jim.”

And then Jim just can’t take it any more; he lets out his laughter and bursts, “What the hell’s gotten into you today?” Spock stiffens considerably, straightening out and turning to Jim with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. 

He tells Jim flatly, with the sort of almost imperceptible hesitation in his voice that happens when he thinks he might’ve misinterpreted a foreign situation, “I believe that on Earth, today is considered somewhat... important. For couples.” Perhaps at Jim’s confused look, he clarifies, “Valentine’s Day. I have already analyzed the data on such an event and have ascertained that it is commonplace for couples to enjoy a light film or a ‘romantic comedy.’” Along with a whole host of other things, apparently. 

Jim’s grin is probably splitting his face. Then he shakes his head, hanging it, and looking up to add, “I’m sorry, I forgot.” They didn’t do anything last year, he doesn’t think. But they were relatively new, then, and Spock was less accustomed to human customs. The fact that Spock would look up Earth traditions is... very sweet. 

It’s fitting, in a way. That it would land on today. He feels lucky, special. Spock wouldn’t ever do anything like this for anyone else. Jim concedes, “Thank you, Spock.” He’s smiling with his eyes, full of sincerity. Spock nods tightly and returns to the console. If Jim didn’t know better, he’d say the tips of Spock’s ears were tinted greener than usual. 

“Do you have a recommendation, or should I instruct the computer to select a suitable candidate?” 

Jim has to think for a moment, mentally skimming the classics. No Valentine’s Day movies come immediately to mind, and he’s not sure he could handle something entirely sappy, anyway. Spock’s already laying it on so thick. Finally, he suggests, “Die Hard.”

Spock glances at him flatly. “That does not sound like a particularly romantic title.”

“Well, it’s not, but it’s technically a holiday movie.” A completely different holiday movie. But they probably won’t spend Christmas, if they wind up celebrating that at all, sitting around watching ancient movies. So Spock simply nods and sets the computer to comb its archives. If ‘Die Hard’ isn’t in there somewhere, Jim figures he’ll need to have a little chat with Scotty. 

It does come up. Good old Starfleet culture banks. Spock sets the console to play, and he wanders back to the couch, ordering, “Lights, five percent.” They’re immediately awash in the pale blue glow of the giant screen. 

Jim’s arms are open, so when Spock wanders near enough, Jim draws Spock into his arms. Spock collapses obediently, falling into Jim’s lap, and Jim pulls him up properly, rearranges his legs and his arms and kisses his cheek, more saccharine than any of his movie suggestions could’ve been. The current choice is probably full of nonsense too odd for a Vulcan, but it still seems more _them_ than a romantic comedy would’ve been. Spock’s head leans on his shoulder, and opening studios give way to the first scene. 

Spock scolds him several times for it hardly being a romantic pick, but Jim points out that Spock did ask him to pick. Spock seems incapable of missing bloopers, and he requires Jim to pause the movie and give a lengthy explanation for how the main character’s shirt magically changes colours between scenes, because ‘human error’ for something so obvious doesn’t seem acceptable to Spock. When it finishes, Jim suggests they make popcorn and try the other, albeit less riveting, sequels. 

Spock obliges and sits next to him or on him or half draped over him for the entirety of their marathon, while Jim holds on and thinks that he couldn’t fathom anyone he’d rather spend his life with more, logic and all.

* * *

When the screen’s finally black and there’s nothing left to play, it’s already reached the time for Jim’s singular plan. His little suggestion seems nothing compared to all Spock’s efforts, but he nonetheless says around a yawn, “Let’s go to the gardens.”

“I was going to suggest that.” Jim chuckles. Of course. 

They throw the blanket they’ve gathered off and stand up, stretching, having fused into a drowsy pleasantness for the past few hours. It was worth it, though—he can’t think of a better way to spend his off day than cuddling with Spock, especially on the one day where Spock seems overtly affectionate. He should’ve planned more special things after all, he thinks. 

With the memory of his own intent, the butterflies come rushing back, and Jim scrubs tiredly at his face to hide the blush. Evidently, he was wrong to think Spock wouldn’t value some sort of show. He could cancel now and do it the next time they’re off, plan something better, more spectacular, but...

When he looks at Spock, he knows they don’t need fireworks. He doesn’t want to wait. He pulls Spock into a hug for no particular reason and drinks in the smell of their shared shampoo, half tempted to just ask now and get it over with. 

But then, he at least has _something_. He detangles from Spock and says, “I just have to talk to Bones about something first.”

Eyebrows knitting together, Spock asks, “About what?” 

And Jim says, “You’ll see. It’s nothing special.” He pecks Spock again—he just can’t seem to stop. “Meet outside the gardens? We’ll go in together.”

So Spock says, “Very well.”

Jim takes him to the door by the hand, and they go their separate ways, with a final kiss and a promise not to take too long. Jim’s stomach grumbles, but it’s not why he hurries.

* * *

He finds Bones in sickbay, back in the little office where he left his basket. It would’ve been too difficult to hide in his own quarters. It’s just the usual packed picnic lunch, nothing fancy, but he wanted to hold onto the few surprises he could manage. Bones looks up as he comes in and asks, “What’s with the dopey grin?”

“Hm?” Fingers already around the basket handle, Jim looks back at his friend. He didn’t mean to be walking around looking lovesick, but he’s hardly surprised to hear it. With another twitch of his lips, he explains, “Spock found out it’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Good lord.” For a moment, Bones looks genuinely concerned. “He hasn’t short circuited, has he?”

Jim laughs. “Actually, he’s more into it than I am. Made me breakfast and everything.”

“That damn water broth he calls ‘soup’?”

“Pancakes, you ass.”

Bones still doesn’t look convinced, and Jim can hardly blame him. The whole day’s been... not quite what he was expecting. Still, “It sort of works well with my plans though, don’t you think?”

“About that,” Bones starts, and his face turns serious, “are you absolutely sure about this?”

Without even thinking, Jim answers, “Absolutely.” He knew when he first confided in Bones he’d get some resistance, maybe even be flat old told not to, but Bones has been begrudgingly supportive. Bones was the one that told him he probably should keep it low-key—strictly rational and Vulcan. At the time, it seemed like good advice. 

Jim’s turned to the door when Bones sighs, “Good luck, kid,” and then grumbles, “You better not cut me out after this.”

Laughing louder than he probably should, Jim assures his friend, “Don’t be stupid. You know you’re our favourite third wheel.”

“Does that mean I’m invited on the picnic?”

Jim’s always been pretty good at poker. He knows Bones, so he says, “Sure.”

Bones wrinkles his nose before pretending to gag. “’Called my bluff.”

Reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, Jim says warmly, “Thanks in advance for being my best man.”

* * *

The way Spock stands outside the recreation deck makes it look like he’s on security duty. Jim steps in beside him and lifts the basket, announcing, “Dinner.” Spock glances down at it, then up at Jim’s face again, obviously deeming this acceptable. 

A step towards the doors, and they open into the eerie illusion of stretching hills and gardens, swamped under the endless sky. It’s a simulated view, of course, but it’s seamless. The way the paths between the trees and bushes and flowers swerve, it feels like it winds on forever. Particularly in the long, deep space missions, this little patch of soil is a huge factor in keeping sane. When they duck down a familiar path lined with reaching Rigelian trees, the sky’s mostly obscured through the branches. The lush, green grass beneath their feet is plush and convincing, a little damp as though from rain. It’s a beautiful, magical sight. 

Jim’s hand finds Spock’s without having to look. Their fingers intertwine, and no one really leads—they often go to the same little alcove. The mingling scents of the earth and alien flowers around them are intoxicating, the air slightly muggier than the rest of the ship. The longer they walk, the more Jim’s insides start to twist—they’re getting closer and closer. He tells himself not to worry—he knows Spock will say _yes_.

They hit the end of the path, next to a little stone bench and a small clearing, but when Jim stops, Spock tugs at his hand. “Perhaps a different alcove, Captain. So we can see the sky.”

It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of Jim’s tumultuous emotions, so he agrees, “Anything you want, Commander.” And he lets Spock guide him aside. 

They take a different route, and at the end of it, they find another clearing, bigger than the last, empty and rimmed with reaching purple flowers that look more sinister than pretty. But that’s half the beauty of space: all the different things. There is a better view of the sky here, and it’s turning purplish above him, a rich, colourful sunset that’s a mix of different worlds. Knowing it’s an illusion doesn’t make it any less enjoyable. 

Fingers slipping from Jim’s, Spock sits down, but Jim shoes him away from the middle of the clearing. There’s a compressed blanket in the basket that expands as it unfurls, and Jim spreads it along the grass, just waiting for Spock’s lifted eyebrow to turn into a question. It doesn’t. Jim sets the basket down and sits so close to Spock that their knees brush.

The food he packed is all Vulcan, all the Synthesizer recipes he could get his hands on, most with names he can’t even pronounce. He doesn’t try. He sets them out and places a box down last, a glistening, red box with a brown ribbon around it. At Spock’s look, Jim says, “Dessert.” It comes out more mumbled than he means it to; that’s what he’s waiting for. 

Spock nods in understanding and repeats, “Chocolates. Please forgive my lack of such a gift to you, as well as roses—I felt they weren’t quite... _us._ ” And though Spock looks hesitant to say it, Jim knows what he means. He doesn’t need heart shaped chocolates and red flowers. 

He says, “That’s okay,” with a soft smile, and he takes a wrap. It’s bursting with Vulcan vegetables—hardly Jim’s idea of an indulgent meal. But it’s not about him. He takes his first bite and ignores the knowing look in Spock’s eyes. Spock eats the food Jim likes well enough. 

After only having little snacks since breakfast, Jim’s quite hungry, and he goes through a lot. A part of him is too nervous to eat, but the rest of him is almost eating by way of a nervous habit. Spock eats with utensils—synthesized plastic for authenticity’s sake. It makes Jim smile to watch. Even with the sandwiches and finger-foods, Spock sticks to his strange traditions. Halfway through his second slice, a glob of mayonnaise sticks to the corner of his lip, unnoticed. Jim reaches over and rubs it away with his thumb, smiling at Spock’s curious look. Because he can, Jim leans over to finish the job with a kiss, licking away any evidence. Spock kisses back, but then they return to eating. 

They’re quiet, for the most part, until Spock asks, “Have you had a pleasant day?”

And Jim says, “More than that. Best day in a long time.” Even though, for all his overworked whining, whenever he’s off the bridge for this long, he inevitably starts to miss it. Just a little. At least with Spock by his side, it doesn’t seem that far. He pops a small cube that tastes like a cracker into his mouth, swallowing it before asking, “And you?”

“It was... enjoyable.” Which Jim knows is a stretch for Spock, who returns to eating. He uses chopsticks on the little cubes—a Vulcan finger-food that came up as popular in the database. Spock picks up an extra one and holds it out towards Jim—Jim takes the message and bites it off. It’s almost laughable how uncharacteristically _sentimental_ Spock’s been all day, but Jim wouldn’t change it. Somehow, the odder Spock acts, the more adorable he is. He’s charming without trying. 

He’s the best first officer in the fleet, too. He’s thrilling, and intelligent, and unique, and gorgeous. He fits at Jim’s side like no one else ever has, like no one else ever could. When they’re together, it just _works_ , and when they’re not together, they’re drawn to each other. It’s just... something that’s meant to happen.

Jim finishes his plate and puts it down. He wants to push the box of chocolates towards Spock, wants to start this now, before he thinks too much. The last thing he needs is to turn to mush, pour over all the reasons he _needs_ Spock in his life and he wants this forever. He’s heard all of Spock’s words before—Vulcan’s mate for life. He’s sure they’ve already chosen each other, but...

But he wants a ring around Spock’s finger, and the more he pictures it there the more he gets overwhelmed. He takes a swig of the water he’s brought—Spock wouldn’t go for champagne—and he looks up at the sky, needing to ground himself. He can feel Spock’s hand land on his leg, squeeze him once, reassuring. Jim’s hand drops overtop of it. He couldn’t even say why. 

And then the first one goes off, a brilliant, bright burst in the sky, oranges and reds and yellows flickering like lit jewels, the far off, explosive noise ringing in his ears. _Fireworks._ The sky’s not programmed to do that. Jim _stares_ at the pattern it makes, interspersed with a second pyrotechnic display, a third, then a forth. They litter the sky in a festive blanket, and Jim’s transfixed, can’t look away. He hasn’t watched fireworks since he was a child, out on the farm for another old holiday, clutching his mother’s hand and ignoring his brother’s explanation of what they really were. They looked like magic. He’s old enough to know better now, but the nostalgia fills in the holes of wonderment, and his chest burns with the pleasure. 

He breathes without looking away, “You did this.”

Spock says, “Yes.” Spock’s hand squeezes again, then drifts over to Jim’s hip, up his body. He glances aside—the fireworks don’t seem to have any intention of stopping. They burn shifting colours and light into his vision, soaking into him even when he’s not staring directly up. He watches the reflections play over Spock’s face, and Spock glances down, closes his eyes. He sucks in breath. 

He opens them again and looks up. His hand is cupping Jim’s face, connecting them. As if Jim would dare look away. His butterflies are back, and he thinks that he should use this moment to ask, but instead he waits—he can see that Spock has something to say instead. Spock’s lips part, failing with words. 

Then he manages, voice steady and eyes determined, “Jim. I... I confess that I do not know the proper protocol in these matters. Research demonstrated a number of possibilities, but given our location, many of them were unavailable. I am afraid that I have not made this as special as your culture demands and as you deserve. But I hope that you can look past these things to what it really is I have to offer.”

Jim opens his mouth, but Spock shakes his head, and Jim shuts it. This day’s been damn special. It’d charm even Bones, he’s sure, but he doesn’t _need_ fireworks, even though the ones Spock’s made are beautiful. 

Spock goes on. “We have spoken in the past of Vulcan mating rituals. My time has not come yet, but when it does, it will be a serious trial; Vulcans mate for life, and it can be quite... strenuous.” Jim smiles again, almost wants to laugh; Spock knows damn well Jim’ll happily be there through _pon farr._ But Jim knows he shouldn’t interrupt, and he just licks his lips, nods. Spock’s voice going over mating rituals twists Jim’s chest in a knot. He has to struggle just to look coherent. “I have suggested before that our coupling would not be wise. That I did not wish to harm you, which is still true, and that I did not want to doom you to such a fate. However...” He pauses, trails off. 

Jim knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it; he leans across the short distance and presses his lips into Spock’s, just something chaste and reassuring. When he pulls back, he’s grinning. Somehow, he’s always known he’d get Spock in the end. When _pon farr_ comes, he’ll be there, and for every other thing thereafter. He’ll abide by the Vulcan rules; it’s the human ones he’s been brewing over. Spock looks down, and his hand retreats from Jim’s face. 

Jim tries to grab it, but Spock slips away. It disappears into a pocket on the side of his pants, and when it pulls out, it’s holding something. It sits in Spock’s lap, and it’s almost trembling, one of those so very subtle motions that only Jim would ever notice. He can read Spock perfectly, and he can see the sudden tension on Spock’s face, the anxiety around the emotionless façade. Spock looks up at Jim again, like he can never stay away for too long. 

He says, “I love you. I know you are my t’hy’la. Perhaps I do not say it enough, but I believe you know my feelings.” Jim nods: of course. “And you know that... you are arguably, as your people say, the best thing that has ever happened to me.” Jim tries to contain his grin and just luxuriate in the compliment. He could do without the ‘arguably,’ but Spock still has to be _Spock._ “I believe that... that I should be honoured to spend as long as I can by your side.” And he pushes the thing in his hand forward, leaving it on Jim’s leg. 

It’s a little black box. Jim doesn’t have to open it to know what it is. He stares at it, and he opens his mouth, but he doesn’t have the words. The feelings are boiling again, washing inside of him and threatening to overrun, to make him cry. It’s hard not to lift his hands to wipe at his eyes. He laughs once, humourlessly, mostly just to cope with all his own emotions. Finally, he manages a weak, “You’re supposed to open the box and ask if I’ll make you the luckiest man in the world.”

“As that is an impossible statement, I chose to forgo it.” But Spock does open the box, tilting the lid back and leaving it to rest on Jim’s lap, the gold band inside glinting up at him. It’s engraved in Vulcan—another merging of cultures. There isn’t a diamond sticking up, but there couldn’t be, not on a captain that could have it caught in things. It’s sleek and simple and _perfect_. 

He really is going to cry. Can’t help it. He laughs again, both at Spock’s words and the absurdity of it all. Spock tells him softly, “I admit laughter is not the response I was hoping for.”

“No, I’m.... Shit, sorry.” Jim shakes his head and gestures vaguely aside. “Just... open the chocolates, okay?” It’s all he can manage. He gives in and wipes at his eyes, catching the moisture before it gets any worse. 

He expects Spock to argue with him, say that now’s hardly a time to incur tooth decay, but something in his tone must make it through. Spock takes the box and gingerly tugs the ribbon free, lifting the lid while the bottom rests in his lap. It’s just a regular chocolate box, full off small, round toffees with different flavours of filling. But the one in the center is missing, and a ring’s sitting there instead—something simple with a less ornate engraving, just a few sweet words. Spock looks at it for a long time before he manages to look back up at Jim, and then he says quietly, “I thought you had forgotten Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t need it to be Valentine’s Day to propose to you, Spock.” It’s happening now; he’s getting overwhelmed. He thinks of all the time they’ve spent together and all the time ahead, how he couldn’t picture his future any other way. He couldn’t imagine a life without Spock. He sniffs and rubs at his nose, and he pushes the little ring box back to Spock, holding out his hand. “You put on mine, and I’ll put on yours.”

“That is a yes, then?” Spock asks. Jim means to laugh, but it comes out as a sort of choked noise. He’s smiling too hard. 

“Yes. I’ll be your husband, and you’ll be mine.”

Spock, ever misunderstanding, says, “I was already yours.” So Jim can’t help but shove his shoulder, back to holding out a hand. 

Spock slips Jim’s on first, down to the knuckle, where it fits snuggly and refreshing cool against his skin, glistening in the light of the still going fireworks. Jim needs a minute just to _look_ at it. He doesn’t know who’s going to marry them; that’s usually the captain’s job. He’ll have to call in another ship or an admiral or something. Or maybe it’ll happen on the next fitting world they come to—something unprecedented and bizarre, just like they often do. The wedding part doesn’t really matter.

Jim slips Spock’s ring on next, slowly to savour the moment. His fingers stay after it’s on. He leans forward, and Spock meets him halfway, their foreheads resting against one another. Jim tilts for a kiss, something he means to be short, sweet.

But he’s crying now, and it comes hard, much harder, so fierce that he winds up toppling Spock over the edge of the blanket, right into the grass. He climbs into Spock’s lap, doesn’t care about their dishes or the left over food he might knock aside, just kisses Spock into the ground while Spock’s arms lift to encase him. It’s not appropriate, really. They’re in a public place, have been the whole time. But the fireworks block out all their noise, and all there is in Jim’s whole universe right now is him and Spock. 

He mumbles between kisses and tears, “Yes.” And they both know that means _I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who sent me love here and [on tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). I love you all. ♥


End file.
